Grief and hope: an ACL journey
By Hannah Phillips, edited by Tiernan Somers and Harriet Harley
My ACL rupture and subsequent recovery has been marked by grief, fear, jealousy, and isolation. It has also been a journey of hope, connection, growth and joy. I’m months away from returning to sport, and though I desperately miss being on the field, I feel grateful to be undergoing this process.
On September 11 2023, I ruptured my ACL and tore my meniscus, MCL and popliteus tendon (I’m not very good at doing things by halves). My first thought, after my knee caved inwards and popped, was that ‘Ellipsis tryouts are 20 days away, and I’m not going.’
The structure fell out of my life immediately; I stopped training, working, and attending university classes. White space dominated my calendar. For months I felt like an unevenly weighted pendulum, pulled towards my grief; I was often unfocussed, overwhelmed and deeply sad. I didn’t know who I was without ultimate, and I didn’t recognise myself without movement. I reached out to my therapist, who explained that I was grieving the loss of my identity as an athlete, and the plans I had for the future.
One month after reconstructive surgery, I journalled: “I cried yesterday, comprehending the muscle loss in my right leg that makes the skin feel flabby. Every mirror is a reminder. Under the compression bandage, my leg looks so skinny.”
The strength I’d worked so hard to build was disappearing before my eyes, and I felt alienated from my own body. Learning to walk again felt very strange. I didn’t trust my knee to hold me; when it did, I was exhilarated.
Every day I was confronted with the loss of my ability, but there was immense joy to be found in regaining it. I remember the sense of pride when I had my first post-operative shower. The triumph when I navigated steep tram steps, overcoming fear with sheer, bloody-minded determination. The gratitude and relief that finally, I was building muscle instead of losing it. Delight at lacing up my cleats to throw, balancing tentatively on one leg. I celebrated every milestone, no matter how minute.
I learned the value of the accumulation of small efforts. I learned how to show up when I really didn’t want to. I learned to consistently do what I can, rather than mammoth but sporadic efforts.
I also learned how to rest. How to sit without my phone and read a book. How to lie down in the park and enjoy the light glimmering through the gum leaves. How to cancel plans, how to nap, how to recognise and accommodate my need for recovery.
I learned resilience; setbacks are still scary, but I shift more quickly into proactive recovery. Currently, I’m managing a new injury that is causing immense amounts of pain. My training has mostly shifted from sprint work and power development to pain management. The timing is devastating and I feel so vulnerable, but I’m proud of how I’ve continued to show up day after day to lay a brick in the wall of my recovery.
Although a profound sense of loss has accompanied my injury, rehabilitation has been an opportunity for growth and sometimes even joy.
Another dichotomy of my experience has been isolation and connection.
Immediately after injury, my communities became physically inaccessible. I was cut off from important sources of support, because I couldn't walk far on crutches and public transport was difficult and exhausting. I don’t drive, and wouldn’t have been able to, anyway.
Even as I became more physically able, I was isolated by jealousy. I didn't know how to be around a sport I could not play. When I first went back to league, I was overjoyed to see friends and spent hours on the sidelines of teams I used to play for, chatting and hugging and commiserating. When I went home, I cried, feeling overwhelmed by jealousy and sadness. I didn’t return for another seven months. Watching nationals from my kitchen was another very low point; I was struck by how wrong it felt not to be there.
My support networks were critical during early rehabilitation, and became stronger as I leaned on friends and family. During a setback that nullified a month of progress, and enveloped me in dread, I called my beloved friend Harriet. She listened and empathised and told me that even if I had to start again, I was strong and eventually, I’d get through this. I believed her, and my throbbing sense of terror reduced to a gentler worry. The emotional toll of this recovery has been significant, but has been continually lightened by my friends’ belief and hope. My relationships are stronger as a result.
Returning to Monash Ultimate Frisbee was really hard. There were days when I felt grateful to see friends, to receive support and share in the joy of our sport. Happy to do what I could; throw and teach and laugh. Other days, I was bitterly jealous and resentful of able-bodied players. The beginners especially didn’t know how bloody lucky they were; they weren’t in love with this sport like I was, but they played with freedom granted by their physical ability. I didn’t engage with the community beyond my close friends, and further isolated myself.
Slowly, though, I did engage. I fell in love with this club again. Coaching gave me purpose and helped me take an active role in the community; being part of a team was incredibly meaningful and I feel so grateful for all of my players. MUF has rallied around me and facilitated my involvement in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Many players have matched against me to play walking ultimate, amongst the chaos of a pickup uni game. Though I haven’t returned to play, or even unrestricted training, I feel more connected to this club than ever before.
Injury made me vulnerable, but people are kind. Receiving support beyond my expectations is something I am deeply grateful for.
Jo Bowen said to me at the University Mixed Ultimate Championships, that “sometimes the opportunities we don’t choose are the most valuable, because we wouldn’t have had them otherwise.” That rings true of my experience.
Injury and rehab has presented opportunities that I wouldn’t have otherwise accessed. I’ve learned so much about the game from the sideline. Feedback I received years ago finally makes sense, because I understand field space and flow better. Though I’m less fit than I was a year ago, I’ve built a foundation, both physical and mechanical, that will reduce risk of future injury. I’ve also had time to work on skills without the pressure of impending games; the freedom to rip up my form and rebuild it deliberately has been valuable and rewarding.
Sometimes, I call bullshit on my otherwise relentless sense of optimism. Pain is just pain, and the only thing to be learned from it is patience. Articulating the joy, gratitude and learning I’ve experienced becomes more difficult when I feel stuck in my grief for the year I have not had.
Zooming in helps. How can I lay a brick in the wall of my recovery? What is actionable? Zooming out, too: I’ve come so far, I’ve learnt so much. The lessons from this injury will last a lifetime.
When I tell people I'm doing ACL rehab the standard reaction is “Oh shit!! That sucks.” Prior to rupturing my ACL, my only associations with injury were negative, but there’s been many unexpected joys and opportunities. It’s certainly not the path I would have chosen, but it’s one that I am grateful for.